The Scarlet Pimpernel and The 21st Century
by Baroness Emma
Summary: A mysterious event lands Sir Percy Blakeney in the 21st Century, and only one girl believes him and his story. Is Sir Percy ready for 2009? Is 2009 ready for Sir Percy?
1. Introduction

**A/N** Right, so like I NEED to start another long chapter story, what with "Legend" in the making and everything else I need to do, but this idea was just too good to pass up. No idea how often it will be updated, but I do have an overall story in mind. However, this does not mean I am not open to suggestions. Please, suggest away! If you give me an idea that inspires a chapter, I will dedicate that chapter to you.

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SherlockianGirl, thank you for proving that the Scarlet Pimpernel can live in a time not his own. I wrote this for you.

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**Introduction**

I do not expect anyone to believe me. No one, that is, except Michal, and he was there nearly the whole time. I do not expect to be believed, but if I did not at least try to tell someone about it, I might end up going mad. Even worse, I might forget that it ever happened, and I do not want that now. Not now that it is over.

I am not going to keep this secret. Not a chance.

It is not every day that a girl meets the Scarlet Pimpernel. . .


	2. In Which Sir Percy is Not Amused

**In Which Sir Percy Blakeney is Not Amused**

For all that, the whole thing started quite simply.

I was sitting in the 12th street BART station, waiting for a Richmond train, when I heard something of a ruckus coming from the station attendant's kiosk.

"No, I bally well DON'T want to go to Pittsburgh, young man, and what is more, if you cannot accept good British gold as currency then may this whole setup of yours be demmed for all eternity!"

The voice was male, very British, and distinctly displeased. I heard the mechanical, almost indistinguishable voice of the attendant splutter in response, and I almost laughed at the Englishman's extremely aggrieved reply.

"Demmed useless system you have over here, if good subjects to the Crown are treated in this manner - Good Lord man! - how do you expect anyone to get from one place to another?"

I came down the corridor, amused and interested at just who would be willing to take a BART station attendant on in this way, and I was quite surprised at what I saw. The man with the British accent was dressed in the most extraordinary period costume, all satin, lace, and what look suspiciously like diamonds, and he was trying to pay for a ticket in what appeared to be gold coins.

I myself had seen many rather odd personages in various BART stations, and they were usually harmless nutters who simply needed another bottle of whatever their drink of choice was, and then they would be out of the way for several hours. I had never seen one actually dressed like he was going to a New Year's costume party, nor one with a bold enough tongue to make the station attendant seriously think about calling security.

Now, I do not usually meddle in such public matters, but I know old Brinks rather well - he is one of the most helpful attendants on the whole BART system - and he did not deserve the dressing down that the dressed up man was now bestowing on him. I decided I had to intervene.

"Excuse me!" I called, "You there! Hey Brinks!" They turned to look at me, and I now had to commit myself. "Brinks, just let him in on my ticket, and I'm sure the gentleman and I can reach an agreement." I had approached the kiosk, and passed my ticket through to Brinks, who took it with a sour face, and handed it most reluctantly to the very tall and very blond man on the other side of the bank of gates. "And if we cannot agree, then what is one trip to me? Thank you Brinks, there will be no more trouble, I think." I added that last because I had glimpsed an intense look of thankfulness on the face of the stranger, and he fumbled to use the ticket like it was his first time to do so (as indeed it was), and I was suddenly struck with compassion for this obvious foreigner who found our public transportation system so bewildering. I almost laughed then, for I do not know one single person who has lived in California and has ridden BART who did not at least once feel exactly the same way as he had just done, but it was a lucky rider indeed who had been able to actually voice his opinions in the manner that this stranger had.

He came to the gate hesitantly, like he was entirely unsure of what the orange plastic doors would do to him, but his one long step took him through - just like that. He handed me back my ticket with a very courtly gesture, and a quiet, "Thank you, Madame, I do apologize for the noise, it was most inconsiderate of me," and he tried to hand me one of his coins.

I smiled, unashamedly waving it away, but suddenly I found myself remembering all those etiquette lessons my mother had made me take in high school, "I suppose," I said glibly, "That you were not aware of the presence of a lady? Thus your use of forceful language?"

He looked unaccountably relieved at this response, and answered softly, "Yes, quite," and clasped his hands at the small of his back.

I began to walk back down the corridor to wait on the worn wooden benches for my train, and he walked in the same direction, but apparently only out of a wish to stay near me, for he looked quite bewildered at the maps and schedules that graced the concrete walls, and did not seem to know in least where he was going. I sat down, but he remained standing, trying to make head or tail of the departure/arrival lists.

I looked at his back, rather intrigued by this seeming crazy person who had such good manners and such odd clothes. It was funny, but I had seen clothes like that only in period drama movies like "Pride and Prejudice", and here I was, in real life, helping someone who looked like an extremely fancy and stylized version of Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Whether he noticed my look or not, he was still rather out of his league, and he came over to my bench and bowed most elegantly at me. "Madame, I wonder if I might impose upon you again? I find myself quite at odds with this geography of yours - I do not quite know where I am, for you see I have never been on American soil before."

"I rather thought it. . . sir. . ." somehow this man warranted a respectful address, though I did not know his name, "And America is VERY large, and our public transportation is really sh. . . shoddy. . . at times. May I ask where you are going, sir?"

"Richmond," he said confidently, but I could see that he still had not the slightest idea of what that truly meant.

"Well, you are in luck then," I said, "That is where I am going. It is a good long ride, and I will have time to show you a little of this system, so I do not think you will have trouble with it again." I have had several friends who have come over on green cards, and I found myself wanting to be nice to this odd stranger. No doubt I would regret it later (I usually nap on my train ride home) but I had had a long day, and it was time to build up good karma.

"Well, that is most kind of you, Madame, but I am afraid I cannot allow you to do this unless we have been properly introduced." He glanced at me halfway through an odd thing that looked like half a pair of glasses, and then he stood and bowed in that same elaborate, courtly manner, and lifting his hat, he said grandly, "Sir Percy Blakney, Madame, at your service." And he extended his hand, as though it was my turn. I assumed it was, for he stopped speaking, and looked at me expectantly, but for quite five seconds I was entirely unable to speak, for a very old memory had come back to me and I could not credit my eyes and ears. Sir Percy Blakeney? _Sir Percy Blakeney_? The man before me must be mad! Sir Percy Blakeney was a fictional character who saved people in France. The. . . the Scarlet something. I had read a book, ten, fifteen years ago, in elementary school. . . What was this utter farce that stood in front of me?

It was definitely time for me to speak, and he was very definitely waiting for my answer. When I found my voice it was rather squeaky, but not too bad, "Ah, Sarah Whithouse at yours and your family's, Sir. . .Percy. . ." I was quite proud of myself for remembering that line from The Hobbit, its formality sounded quite in order in this situation. "Do. . . do please call me Sarah. . . I prefer it. . ." I got out, and for some very odd reason, I blushed.

For reasons I did not then understand, my reaction calmed him greatly, and he sat down next to me on the bench. "Very well, Sarah, and please call me Blakeney - it seems more in keeping with this excessively casual society you have over here."

This seemed a most unusual way to begin a conversation. "Excessively. . . casual?" I said, suddenly slightly unsure of this man's motives, "What do you mean?"

"Demme ain't it obvious? I see so very little propriety in anyone that I am very nearly insulted by everyone. 'Tis dashed uncomfortable, but still, there it is. The men were clothes so ill fitting they are nearly falling off, 'tis rare I see a cravat, all the ladies wear breeches, and I have seen but few who look like ladies, and as for what I CAN see! Well. . ." and here he gave a flowery sort of waving gesture as though to dismiss all thought of modern appearances from his mind.

"My pants offend you?" I looked down at the nicely tailored black slacks I always wore to work, "You must be very. . . traditional. . . where you come from."

"Indeed, we are, and it is dem difficult to understand who or what or why in this country of yours. . . _everything_ is at topsy turvy, and _nothing_ is as it should be, and _no one _seems to care."

I almost resented his vehemence, and said with more vigor than I intended, "Then why the. . . er. . . _why_ did you come in the first place?"

"That is just it. I did not "come" to this place at all. I arrived." He was very airy and flip about it, and I had to try not to be offended.

"Oh, "arrived"? I see," I said, slightly sarcastic, "On Royal attachment or something?"

"No. I mean what I say, young lady." All at once he was almost serious, "I arrived. Just like that. I was relaxing quite peacefully on the terrace outside Blakeney Manor, and all of a sudden there was a most strange sort of wind - stinging and cold, but also fresh and clear - and when I opened my eyes I was in that attractive little copse of trees across the street from here, and all these demmed odd carriages going very fast alongside it - how, I am not quite certain, perhaps you can explain - and some very strange buildings all around me, and equally strange people walking about. In fact the whole to-do is demmed strange - I only know I am in America because I happened to stop one of the young men - he had _most_ strangely coloured hair and it was shamefully untidy and he was standing on a funny little board with wheels, so his opinion may not be trustworthy - but I asked him what country this was, and he said The United States of America. I was not inclined to believe him, because I thought the Colonies were quite like Europe in many ways, but the lad gave me the same answer three times, so he must have been convinced of his information, even though he had on a very odd shirt - it seemed brocaded somehow with the face of someone and there was writing on it that said "Obama" - who the devil is that, may I ask, and why does he have his face on shirts? - at any rate, this is America, and I have had two hours of wandering about and I simply want to go home, and that is Richmond, so here I am."

His voice was quite calm throughout this very long one-sided conversation, and I just let him talk. The story was coming back to me. The Scarlet. . . what was that word?. . . something, was an Englishman who had married a Frenchwoman and had an argument with her and then decided that he had to rescue French aristocrats during the French Revolution to occupy himself. If this man was at all insane, then he knew his classic literature quite well, if he was trying to impersonate Sir Percy Blakeney. For a second I was a little afraid of him - it is not often that a girl of twenty-five gets to sit next to someone who thinks he is a fictional character. Not me, anyway.

Well. . . at least he wasn't trying to impersonate Marguerite. Or Chauveron. . . or whatever the villain's name was. . .

That would have been _interesting_. . .

Trust me. I work in San Francisco. Such people exist.

But he had leaned back against the concrete, suddenly seeming very tired and almost. . . well, almost vulnerable. . . and VERY foreign, and very much in need of someone to help.

Odd that it was then that I felt safe around him. And even odder that I was beginning to believe his story.

"So you have no idea how you got here?" I asked softly.

He had closed his eyes and crossed his arms, "Not the slightest clue," he said simply.

"And you don't know, really, where you are?"

"No."

"Or when you are?"

"What?" He opened his eyes and looked keenly at me, that quizzing glass of his - quizzing glass! - imposing itself between my face and his.

I was beginning to remember specifics. A surging, seething mass of people who are only human in name. . . Paris. . . 1792. . .

"No, not what," I said calmly, "When. What year is it, Sir Percy?

He dropped his quizzing glass, "It is the autumn of the Year of Our Lord, 1794."

"Is it? And when were you born?"

"March 12th 1760. . ." he said almost reluctantly, "Why?"

"Because, Sir, this is the spring of the year of No Lord in Particular, 2009, and you are either utterly insane, or I am completely delusional."


	3. On The Platform

**On The Platform**

I don't think I have ever heard someone laugh as loud or as long as Sir Percy did at that moment. I was quite glad that Brinks was out of earshot and we were alone on the platform. For one second I almost believed he was indeed mad - such laughing at what was not meant to be a funny remark certainly seemed a little "touched", as it were, but suddenly I realized he was not laughing at what I had said, but how I had said it.

I realized later that this reaction of his was so completely in character, and his subsequent actions so completely honorable, that I found I believed him and his story - fantastic as it was - even before he got control of his mirth and raised his eyeglass again, looked at me merrily, and said -

"And I may take this, Miss Sarah Whithouse, to mean that you believe me." He said it - he did not ask.

All at once, he was the leader in our conversation, and I was the one bewildered.

"What?" I stammered, "No. . . Well. . . not as such. . . not yet. . . but I don't disbelieve you either," at the moment it was quite true, but as I said, I was rapidly suspending my disbelief.

"Ah, methinks you believe me," he said easily, "You are in no way dreaming or ill - not the least in a state to succumb to delusions - and if a sensible young woman like yourself thought she was in the company of a madman, she would hardly entertain thoughts of trying to aid him single-handedly, as you have done. You would be frightened, I think. All sane people have some natural fear of insanity - and you are not in the least afraid of me. Are you?"

I suddenly realized how kind he looked underneath all that flash, and the comfortable feeling I had had a minute ago came back completely. There was nothing to be afraid of in this man, I was sure.

"A bit stunned, perhaps," I said truthfully, "But not afraid, no. And I think you are much too full of logic to be a confused nut - and if you are a sociopathic serial killer who likes to dress up like period drama heros and attempt to charm his victims by laughing at them, well. . . I am already dead."

He smiled at that, and said quietly, "I assure you I am quite sane. And not at all inclined to kill people in any way whatever."

"Of course, the Scarlet Pimpernel would never. . ." I broke off. Scarlet Pimpernel! That was the word! At last I had remembered, but instead of being relieved at the name, he suddenly jumped to his feet.

"How the devil did you you know that?!" He looked down at me, quite openly shocked, and completely serious.

"I. . . uh. . ." I hesitated. Suddenly I did not know what to say. How on earth to tell this living, breathing person beside me that, if he was who he said, then in my world, he was nothing but a fiction, a creation of a novelist, not so much a lie, but a complete phantom - and that the incredible part about his being here was not that he had jumped two hundred years into the future, but that he was now existing in a completely different reality.

How do you tell someone that they do not truly have the right to exist? That they not only cannot but _ought_ not to be alive? For a moment, I could not tell him, but he took my hesitation as another type of evasion, and he leveled his quizzing glass at me almost menacingly, "Who told you?" he said peremptorily, "How is this known? Speak up woman, if I am to trust you I must know!"

"Sir Percy," I said regaining my wits at this assault, "Do sit, and I will try to explain."

Reluctantly, he did so, continuing to look at me quite warily.

"You see, Blakeney, I know who you are because, well. . . I don't know quite where to begin. . . because you are not exactly, that is to say. . . you are something of a legend, I suppose, not really an historical figure. . ." I cleared my throat and tried to be more coherent. "Has it not occurred to you what two hundred years might do to those events in France and England? There were a few people who knew you, even then, were there not? And several generations might make such history something to be. . . well. . . something to be proud of at least. . . and perhaps told about. . . that's not a dangerous thing. . . or. . ." I ran out of words, realizing just how far I was stretching the truth here.

He still looked suspicious, and said, "It is most odd that you should know anything about it. . . we made sure that those who knew were sworn to secrecy - and extremely few others ever found out."

Something occurred to me, and I ran with it.

"Sir Percy, there is a certain circumstance involving the facts of your existence that might make it dangerous for me even to tell you what exactly. . . or how exactly. . . I know these things. Have you ever heard of a paradox?" I had seen "Back to the Future" enough times to know this argument rather well - I was sure I could make it stick.

"Paradox? Yes, of course."

"Well, your being here is one. Surely you must see that. I don't want to make it worse by telling you just how it's a paradox, but just believe me when I say that most of the people here who happen to know the name "Sir Percy Blakeney" also know that "The Scarlet Pimpernel" and he are one and the same man. And a lot of people know a good deal more than that. It's a well known tale - I admit I don't remember too much of it - but I'm sure the reality was quite a bit different than the story. Still. The story is known. And that fact has nothing to do with secrets, or anyone wanting to make a mess of your life."

He relaxed a little, "I still don't understand, but I suppose I may take comfort in the fact that M. Chauvelin was not transported to this place with me. Zounds! that would have been doubly terrible, what?"

Chauvelin! Yes, that was the name of the villain. And he had been rather. . . nasty. . . as I recalled.

"Well, you are quite right, Sir Percy. I _do_ believe your story. And now you must believe mine, so we are even. I suppose that means we are going to have to trust each other enough for you to come home with me. Can you live alone in the same house with a woman you barely know?"

He looked just a little shocked, "Do you question my motives, Sarah?"

I smiled. "I question your sanity. . ."

"You can't possibly have any worse habits than Tony. . ."

And here we laughed together for the first time, and he seemed to cheer up enormously. I almost wished he hadn't, because he got very giggly when I tried to explain the social revolutions that had allowed for women to wear breeches.

Then the BART train finally arrived, and I got to experience the joy of explaining the meaning of trains, sliding doors, mechanical voices, and non-animal propulsion systems to an extremely perky two hundred year old thirty-five-year-old.

It was a very long ride home.


	4. Richmond

Big thanks go out to Alpine Sheep, who proved that Sir Percy can have a female friend from modern times, and she doesn't have to be foolish or a flirt.

BTW - I do not own any of Orczy's characters, or any of the direct Orczy quotes I've used and am going to use in this story, but Sarah Whithouse is mine, miiiiine! You may not have her. :)

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**Richmond**

It was very late in the afternoon when the BART train finally arrived in Richmond, and I was very tired. Attempting to explain electricity (among many other things) to someone who kept mentioning people like Stephen Gray, Charles François du Fay, Robert Boyle, and Benjamin Franklin, was immensely trying. Getting myself to remember names and facts from my all-too-distant elementary history and science classes was almost the easy part. Getting him to believe that we had actually harnessed the "electrical fluid" and made it a very efficient source of energy was the impossible bit. He even had a hard time believing that he was in an electrically powered vehicle at that very moment.

He had picked up the difference in geography quite well, however, and he had no problem understanding that the "Richmond" we were going to was at least six thousand miles away from "his" Richmond, but for all that the differences in geography are easy to understand - being within the human scope, as it were - the difference in time and culture were extremely difficult for him.

He quite understood why I had thought him insane, but the first time he saw me use my cell phone, it was he who thought _me_ mad, and I couldn't say that I blamed him.

I had to call Michal, my boyfriend, and ask him to check on several items I was bidding for on E-bay, I suppose my half of the conversation would have sounded a trifle nutty to_ anyone _who had never heard such a conversation before.

"Hey, Mike, hon. Yeah, it's just been a long day - and I've got to talk to you before you come over for dinner tomorrow. Nothing emergency, just something you need to know. . . anyway, would you look up that Aromatherapy kit I'm bidding on? I need to up my bid for your jacket too. Yes, the leather one. And that Ipod that Kim wanted for her birthday? Oh you did? Last night? Was it? Wow. Ok, we might have to go on Craigslist, but no prob - and you can go up to $350 for the kit if you have to. No, it's really nice, and the business needs it. Yes, I'm fine, just. . . I helped Brinks out today and picked myself up a situation that I really DO have to explain in person. Yeah, it's all good. I promise. Yeah. Ok, love you. Bye."

After I hung up, it was a good twenty seconds before Sir Percy spoke, and had I been less tired, I might have noticed profound confusion and more than a little wariness in his voice when he did speak.

"Sarah?" he said quietly, "Why were you talking into a snuffbox?"

I looked at him, confused, "A what?"

He pointed at my hip, "That thing in your pocket. It looked suspiciously like a snuffbox. I admit that people here do seem to do a lot of very odd things, but talking into a snuffbox quite trumps everything else I've seen so far. . ."

At this point I was trying to hold back giggles, but I could see he was serious, and had I known him better, I would have noticed that he looked quite concerned for my wellbeing.

"No, no," I said, digging out my phone, "It isn't a snuffbox. I don't use tobacco, actually, and I don't think you can even GET snuff here in America - at least I've never heard of it. Here look," I opened my silver and red Nokia flip phone and showed him, "It's called a cell phone. Descendant of the telephone, descendant of the telegraph, descendant of the carrier pigeon, descendant of shouting really loud across great distances. It's one of those electrical things I've been trying to explain."

He took the phone cautiously and looked at the buttons and the screen for minute before handing it back, "And why, exactly, were you talking into it?" he asked.

I sighed grimly, "Because I was talking to my boyfriend." I could see that this was going to take some explaining, "It's like. . . oh, let me see. . .what IS it like?" I scratched the back of my neck, trying to think, "Um, did you ever notice that when you fly a kite, and it's soaring well, if you bring your ear close to the string you can hear the wind much louder than otherwise?"

"I can't say that I have, but I can imagine," he said, nodding. He really was making a valiant effort to understand.

"Well, that would be because the sound of the wind was traveling along the kite string faster than it was traveling through the air - get it?"

"Yes, perhaps." He began polishing his eyeglass with his handkerchief, a gesture I was beginning to notice was his sign for deep thinking.

"And then, you would really have to have a kite to hear the wind in that way, right?"

"True enough."

"So, there are a lot of electrical waves that start here," I pointed at my phone, "With my voice, and they go along a sort of "kite string" made of those waves, to Mike, my boyfriend, who has another one of these phones, and who can hear me speaking through it."

"And where is he, exactly?"

"He lives a couple of miles from my house, so he's about, oh, five miles from here? Six, maybe. He's still at work."

"So he can hear you if you speak into that, and you can hear him?"

"If I, um, what do I want to say? If I arrange the kite string properly, then yes."

He laughed a little, "Arrange the kite string?"

"Yes, that's what the buttons are for. I can talk to anyone who has one of these things, but I have to know the particular. . . uh. . . the specific code - if I am to reach them."

He leaned back in the BART seat, with was rather small for him, and crossed his arms comfortably. "Sounds begad odd, but I suppose it has it uses, what?"

"Yes, I did need to talk to Mike."

"And I am to take it that you are engaged to him?" For some reason he sounded disapproving.

I looked down, suddenly a little embarassed of how blatantly I had talked to Mike in front of this stranger from a different world. He must be one to think a lot about propriety. "No, not engaged yet," I said, crisply, "Boyfriend and girlfriend is more like. . . courting, I guess. That okay with you?"

"I assume your parents approve of your familiarity, so it is not for me to say," he said, almost tartly.

Without knowing it, he had flicked a raw place on my spirit, and I snapped back at him, "My parents _did_ approve, you know, and if they were alive they would tell you. . . so yes, it is_ not _for you to say, and I would thank you to treat me like the adult I am!" I blinked and looked away, almost mad at myself for letting a stranger see so much of my emotions.

All at once, he was apologetic, and not in a sappy sort of way - he suddenly seemed to care. "Zounds, I'm sorry, Sarah. I had no idea. . ." he spoke softly and tried to catch my eyes, "That was most unkind of me, will you forgive me?"

I blinked back tears and looked out of the train window. We were beginning to approach the station, and the train was slowing down. I nodded at him and swallowed, "They've only been gone a year, you know, and I still miss them terribly. Mike was the one who helped me, you see. He saw me through some very bad days. I've known him for years - it isn't like I'm doing anything. . . anything. . . oh, of "bad reputation", I suppose you would say. . . But I shouldn't have snapped at you, you didn't know, I'm sorry," again the etiquette lessons came back to me, and for some reason, I offered him my hand.

He took it and bowed over it, and I wondered for a second just how someone could bow sitting down, and then it was obvious that I had, quite by accident, done just the right thing, and he brightened visibly, and changed the subject.

"Did I mishear you, just now, or can I take you to mean that you have a business? What do you do, may I ask, and why does it require "aromatherapy", whatever that may be?"

I smiled and gathered up my purse - the train was pulling into the station, "I'm a massage therapist, but I'm sure you have no idea what that means, so I suppose you could call me a. . . physician, maybe? or perhaps I mean herbalist? . . anyway, "aromatherapy" is the use of different scents to calm or stimulate different senses or organs or portions of the brain - quite a science actually. Here, you're going to need this. . ." I handed him a spare BART ticket that I had been rummaging for, and gave him a five dollar bill so he could add fare to it. "I'll show you how to use it, don't worry."

He took the ticket amiably enough, but he was slightly stunned at my description of my little business, "You truly work, then? This is not some small venture for the pleasure of doing something?"

"Indeed not, Sir Percy!" I said, remembering suddenly that a "working woman" would be someone of completely different social class than he was used to, and hadn't that phrase another slightly unsavory meaning too? Well, I was sure he didn't think _that_ of me, but in any case, I had to make my own living, and he had to understand that, at least.

"My parents left me _some_ money," I said, leading him to the stairs so we could go down and get out of the station, "And a house and a car, so I am rather better off than I might be, but I have to earn my daily bread, Sir Percy, and I have clients all over the Bay Area." He had quickly learned that this phrase meant the surrounding cities, and did not even blink over it, "In fact, anyone who is concerned about their health can call me and make an appointment. It's quite legal, and very proper, I assure you. I like to think I have improved a lot of people's lives."

"Ah," he said, understanding as much as was at that time probably possible, "And does Michal work?" He caught on to how one adds fare to a BART ticket rather well, and I hardly had to show him how to use the exit gate.

"Oh, yes, he is a building inspector for a local architectural agency," I looked back at him while I led him through the parking lot, "And that means he looks at houses that people have built, and makes sure they are safe for people to live in before someone moves in."

"Nice, honourable profession, I would say," Sir Percy said, his long stride keeping up with me quite easily, "And he likes leather coats?"

Wow! The man's memory was astonishing. A few hours in a totally different world and he probably hadn't forgotten a single detail. "Yes, I'm buying him one for Valentine's day. Here's my car, Sir Percy." I had found my Honda Civic and pointed him to the passenger side door. He managed the door well, and even understood the seatbelt a lot better than I would have expected. I decided I ought to explain the whole of my phone call and I said, "And Kim is my best friend. She's an interior decorator - she picks people's paint and furniture and. . ."

"I am aware of that particular profession, Sarah." He said it quite calmly and quietly, and he leaned back in the seat, like he was very tired, and I was willing to bet he was as hungry as I was.

"Oh, do you? Well, that's what she does. I don't think I'll explain an Ipod right now, but you might as well know it is a little thing that plays music. Is there anything else that I havn't explained yet?"

He took a deep breath, and I began to navigate the parking lot, determined to find a restaurant, first thing.

"Who," he said slowly, "Is this "Obama" fellow, and why does he have his face on shirts?"

I smiled, "He's the president, the first black one we have ever had, and a lot of people are very excited about it, and so they put his face on things - not just shirts - to celebrate it. Rather a nice gesture, I always thought, but then, I grew up with that sort of thing." I was rambling, but I was tired, and hungry, but Blakeney suddenly got very excited.

"I say, _have_ you abolished Slavery?"

I was slightly shocked at this, "Why _yes_, we. . ."

"Zounds, I'm glad!" he interrupted, "There's a great debate in Parliament over it, and in France too. . . do you know if England has abolished it as well?"

I searched my already rather over-worked memory, "Yes. . . rather a long time ago, too. . . 1800's as I recall. . . England was the first."

"That is demmed satisfying, Sarah, you've no idea. I might even forgive someone putting their face on a shirt, if that's true." He pounded a fist on the armrest, and I realized that this must have been some issue of his - maybe the Scarlet Pimpernel had been involved in slavery issues? I couldn't remember, but it seemed likely.

He lapsed into silence after that. I was quite glad. I was wiped out with explaining things.

A few minutes later I pulled into a parking space right in front of Nugori Sushi Box - my favorite little Japanese restaurant.

"You hungry, Blakeney?" I asked, breaking his long silence.

"Rather," he said, sitting up.

"Well, we can get a meal here, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to take off the hat and the coat and that. . . tie." I hesitated because I wasn't quite sure I remembered what it was called, and whether or not he would be offended at my request.

"It is a cravat," he said instructively, "And why must I take it off to go into a public establishment?"

I hesitated even more, "Well. . . because. . . Blakeney, it looks. . . out of place. And out of time. And I don't want any more people asking us questions than we have to. Don't get me wrong, it looks. . . festive. . . and all that. . . but. . ." I desperately fought my embarassment, but he simply grinned at me.

"Are you asking me to "blend in", Sarah?"

"As much as possible, yes," I said, relieved. His super-fancy clothes had not mattered much in San Francisco - Brinks had taken exception to the manner in which he was be spoken to, not the manner in which his addresor was clothed - but here on the other side of the bay, people were a little more traditional, and all that lace and flash was just going to be problem.

When he was down to a vest and shirtsleeves, he didn't look all that bad - in fact, rather nice - and when he insisted on escorting me to the door of the restaurant, it was much less embarassing than I thought it was going to be.

Mrs. Morita greeted me kindly and led us to my favorite little table in a corner. I had been coming here for years, and Nana - as everyone called her - knew me better than Brinks did. She was not surprised at me bringing a strange man to her restaurant - I had brought several people there on business matters before - and she calmly took my order and smiled charmingly at us both.

"Two Bentos for starters Nana, please, and two bowls of miso," I didn't even need a menu, I loved the food here so much, "Three orders of salmon sashimi and a plate of Frisco rolls, better make it two orders of steamed rice and a large order of Mongolian beef with snow peas. A pot of tea and sesame rolls, and - do you have green tea cheese cake tonight?" She nodded and gave her usual exuberant "yes" to my enthusiasm for her husband's cooking, "Good. Two of those," I said happily.

I sat back, contented to wait for what I knew was coming, and quite willing to explain all sorts of things to Blakeney as long as I could look forward to Mr. Morita's miso soup and four fish bento box.

Blakeney leaned forward, confidentially, "You really must let me compensate you for all this Sarah."

"Let you what?" My tired brain was having a little difficulty with his grammar.

He sighed a little, "Pay for some of this luxury you seem to take so for granted. But I do not know if this gold of mine is any good here. . ." he looked curiously at the small pouch I had seen earlier, and jingled the coins in it.

"May I see it?" I said, reaching out my hand, palm up.

He gave me the pouch quite easily, and a second later I had twenty five of the most beautiful coins I had ever seen in the palm of my hand. They were heavy like no other money is heavy, and shone like only gold can. I tell you, it was real money. I suddenly thought that paper had ruined the experience of having the price of a meal in one's hand, or knowing that you didn't have to worry about being rained on at night. Twenty five mint condition gold sovereigns from the late 18th century. I was willing to bet that they were worth more than twenty-five pounds. I put them back into the pouch and handed them back to Blakeney.

"I'll take you somewhere tomorrow where they collect things like that, and I'd be willing to say that you can get as much of our money for them as you are likely to need. Don't worry. As for tonight, please don't bother about it. You are my guest." I smiled at him, and he seemed to relax.

It was warm and pretty inside the small restaurant, and there were only two or three other patrons scattered around, so Blakeney could look curiously at everything without seeming to stare at anyone. I could tell he was stocking up a long list of questions, and was about to begin on them, when our food came, and all other questions became of little importance.

I rapidly thanked Nana, and set up my wasabi and soy sauce in record time. I was halfway through my third piece of salmon when I realized that Blakeney was not at all impressed with his meal.

"What is this, exactly?" he asked, poking warily at a very pink slice of tuna that was arranged quite prettily on a diamond shaped chunk of rice.

"It's fish," I said, forgetting caution in my enthusiasm, "Raw fish. That's tuna," I said pointing, "And that's salmon, and that's yellowtail, and that's. . ."

Blakeney was looking very confused, "You actually EAT this?" he murmured, obviously trying not to insult Nana, who he had instantly seen to be a amiable sort.

I giggled, realizing my mistake in bringing him here in first place, "Yes, it's quite good, actually. . . try it," I said helpfully, "If you don't like it I'll order you some more soup, but I promise it's better than it looks. It's really fresh, you know, because it doesn't smell like fish," and here I took another bite.

I almost spat it out when he said, "You eat it with sticks?"

He was rolling the chopsticks about cautiously, but unconsciously, perhaps, he was already deftly miming my actions.

Trying not to choke, I swallowed, then sighed. It had been a very long day.

"Look, just pretend that they're two rather long eyeglasses without their lenses, and you're trying to hold them like a pair of quill pens in one hand, because that's how the Frenchman you are impersonating happens to eat his caviar!"

Surprisingly, he got exactly what I was saying, and didn't have any trouble with the chopsticks after that. He seemed to like the meal too, though I could see it wasn't what he was used to, and probably not what he preferred.

Oh, well. I could deal with that tomorrow.

Then it suddenly hit me. I don't know why it had taken so long, but it was then that the whole situation hit me upside the head.

Tomorrow. Oh dear. Tomorrow meant Mike.

How on earth was I going to explain this to Mike?

* * *

**A/N** Like it? Review it or PM me! I am taking suggestions for situations that Percy gets into while he is here in the 21st century, and if I use your idea, the chapter will be dedicated to you. How's that for an offer? You get an idea, and I do the work!

:)

You could R&R the rest of my stories too. . . I wouldn't mind. . . ;)


	5. Light and Shadow

**Light And Shadow**

The sun had gone down, and I was exhausted - both mentally and physically. Our meal had pretty much been spent quietly, and our short ride home was almost completely silent. He must be just as tired as I was. More, probably. I know I would be if I had been suddenly and inexplicably transported to a whole new world that I didn't understand, and only one person was even trying to help me.

I pulled into the driveway of my home and turned off the car, searching for the house key as I took the keychain out of the ignition. It was my house now, this simple suburban three bedroom, but it had been my parent's for twenty years - it was the house I had grown up in, the house I had left to go to college, the house I had returned to whenever I seriously needed to do a load of laundry, the house I had moved out of for good three years ago, the house I had called four times a week to see how my family was doing, the house I had visited for every holiday, and the house that nearly a year ago had been the scene of two heart attacks within two weeks, then a double funeral, and, four months later, the return of all my worldly goods. I had lived here on my own for almost eight months, and right now I was to tired and too chicken to admit to myself that it would be very, very, very good to have someone else living there again.

I directed Blakeney to the living room, and then grabbed a blanket and a pillow for him from the hall closet. "You can sleep here," I pointed at the couch he was sitting on and dropped the blanket and pillow on it. "I'll try to set up the guest room for you tomorrow. There's food and water in that big white cupboard," I continued, pointing around the corner at the refrigerator, "and don't be surprised if the cupboard makes noise during the night, that's normal." I sighed, trying to think, "Um, oh yeah, the bathroo. . . no, no, what is that word?. . . oh, yes. . . the privy is the second door on the right, over there." I pointed in the general direction of the bathroom door, not even realizing that I would have to explain indoor plumbing at some point. I was that tired.

Then I realized he needed something to sleep in, and I went into my parent's old room and grabbed a set of my father's pajamas. They looked like they might fit, but Sir Percy was very tall - taller even then my father had been, and my father had not been short. I shook out the pajamas and looked at them. Yes, he was going to have trouble fitting into the shirt, and the pants were too short. Blakeney had very long legs and very wide shoulders. . . and now that I was thinking about it, I had to admit that the man was huge. Not that he was freakishly proportioned, but he was not what my vision of "life two hundred years ago" painted men in general. I wondered for a minute just what kind of place England had been in the 1700's. I like Jane Austen and other period books as much as the next girl, but I had never been what one would call obsessed with it. I knew so very little about Sir Percy's world that I was feeling almost as out of place as he must be feeling now. I promised myself I would find that book of his - I had had to buy it in the sixth grade, no doubt it was stuffed in my closet somewhere - and re-read it. "Six-foot four, and broad in proportion" certainly sounded like a description of Sir Percy, but was that phrase just a remnant of my now very scattered memory and wits, or was it a real line from the book?

Whatever it was, I needed to find him some nightclothes, and my father's weren't going to fit him. My mother had worn huge t-shirts to bed - always the biggest t-shirts she could find - and I took the second one of her shirts that I found. I didn't take the first one because it had "Jo-Joe's Texas Steak House and Raider's Booster Club" written all over it, and I just didn't feel like explaining the Raiders, Booster Clubs, Steak Houses, or Texas right now. The second one I found was plain, however, and I found an extra pair of my father's sweatpants that he had never worn because they were too long.

I returned to the living room "You can wear that to bed," I said shortly, handing him the clothes, "Sorry I'm rushing, but I'm beat. . . don't worry about getting up in the morning either, I don't have any appointments for tomorrow, and we'll spend it trying to figure out what we're going to do with you." He smiled and laughed a little. "Good night, Sir Percy," I said as formally as a girl of my age and era can do when she is dog tired.

He thanked me courteously, and I left him to it. Two minutes later I had passed out on my bed upstairs, without even taking off my shoes.

I had not been expecting to dream. I don't usually, but that night I was in a whirlwind of the strangest faces and figures I had ever had the slightly disturbing pleasure to witness. It was not unlike a cross between the cyclone scene in "Wizard of Oz" and the "Helping Hands" sequence from "The Labyrinth". Very odd, to say the least, but the good thing was that, when I awoke, all my fears and misgivings from the day before had drained away, and I had two very wonderful minutes of ignorance.

I opened my eyes, not registering anything but the fact that it was light outside.

It was a pretty morning. The dust specks that I usually hate were glowing so brightly that, for a second, I wanted to reach out and capture them like fireflies.

Then, I realized that I had slept in my clothes, and then I remembered why.

I groaned and turned over. Why me? Why now, just when everything was getting back to equilibrium? Why this? Why something completely impossible and totally crazy and utterly inexplicable?

And why a man? Why did I have to feel compassion for a strange _man_? Why couldn't it have been Tinkerbell? She would have been so much easier to explain to a boyfriend.

"Oh, this little fairy on my shoulder who talks like a bell and has a very testy attitude? - I found her at a BART station yesterday, and I'm going to help her out."

Yeah, Mike would understand THAT. He would have me committed, but he would understand.

But, with Sir Percy Blakeney, Mike would have me committed, AND he would kill me.

I thought of several very improper words to say, but just rolled out of bed and padded to my closet, where I kept several boxes full of my old books. If I was going to deal with this, I was going to have to know my territory.

I brought down the first box, coughing a bit from the dust. Then I turned to my desk and flipped on my computer. If I couldn't find it here, I was going to have to do a search. I smiled and murmured, "To all those with Google at their fingertips. . .", and turned back to my box.

Hm. "Johnny Tremain", "Around the World in Eighty Days", "Twelfth Night", "Close Encounters of the Third Kind", "Lorna Doone", "Arabian Nights" - Wow, I had an odd collection in this old box. . . "My Side of the Mountain", "Sweet Thursday", "The Miracle Worker", "The Orient Express", "Eldorado". . . "Eldorado"? I looked at the cover of this unexpected volume. It had a scarlet pimpernel on it. I opened the cover and read the flyleaf. The Scarlet Pimpernel had more than one story? How on earth had I gotten this book? I couldn't remember ever even hearing of it before. Hm. It must have been my mother's or something, but I was very glad of it. I would have to read it tomorrow, though, today was going to be busy enough.

"The Princess Bride", a "Precious Moments" Bible, "The Valley of Fear", "The Silmarillion" - Ah, I had been looking for that! - "King Solomon's Mines", three volumes of Ogden Nash poetry, "The Crystal Cave", "The Great Escape", "The Scarlet Pimpernel"!

At last, here it was. I wiped it free of the dust, and sat down for an hour of skimming. I had acquired this skill in college, and, unfortunately, it had never left me. I like to read, my life pretty much demands that a have a quiet hobby or two, but, when pressed, I can probably cram the meaning of two or three hundred pages of text into my head, and understand most of it, in the space of an hour or so.

But, by the time I had reached the chapter "Lord Grenville's Ball", I admit I was slowing down. This was a real adventure story! Of course, I realized, I would not have remembered even as little of the story as I had done unless the book had been an exceptionally good one. Sixth grade had been full of good books, however, and I recalled that it was also then that I had been introduced to Tolkien. Yes, Lord of the Rings had definitely trumped Orczy out of my memory.

Well, obviously, that was unfair. Especially since it was Sir Percy Blakeney, and not Gandalf the Grey or Aragorn Elessar Telcontar who was sleeping downstairs in my livingroom.

"Richmond" went by much too quickly, and I admit I read it twice. The second half of the book I didn't skim - I devoured. I didn't cry over it, but suddenly the whole situation became far more unreal. This was the story of Sir Percy Blakeney? How could such a person be real? Things like this were. . . legendary. . . Sir Percy Blakeney is in my livingroom? No!

I had to go down and see.


	6. Twenty Four Hours

Hey all. I am trying to get to a very funny bit in the story - before the weekend! - because I have no idea how much time I am going to have for this during this upcoming week. (actually, I know it's going to be pretty much zilch) So, bear with me, I beg of you. I promise it gets funnier.

Thank you to Shotgun Opera for the bit about the fish, to Sherlockian Girl for liking hairspray, to Alpine Sheep for her funny dreams, to Pimpernel Princess for refrigerator magnets and to Theallgreatandmighty Cheese (you know who you are, m'dear) for general awesomeness.

* * *

**Twenty Four Hours**

I put on some fresh clothes - a long flowy skirt that was the same sort of chestnut brown as my hair, a simple white top, and a pair of soft leather flats. I hoped that Blakeney would appreciate the trouble I went to to wear a skirt, for even though I think I look pretty nice in skirts, I hardly ever wear one.

I was about to brush my hair when something came to me - several somethings, in fact - and I dashed to my parent's bathroom and gathered up a few things.

Perhaps I ought to say that it might seem weird for someone to keep all the many and varied things that had belonged to two people - after those two people were dead - and keep them in pretty much the same place they had been before, but I might also say that it would be far stranger if I had wanted to erase the memories of a lifetime by completely altering the face of the home I had always known.

After I had gathered what I needed, I sat down at my computer, and did a search. Not on the Scarlet Pimpernel, but on something that would let me help the Scarlet Pimpernel later on today. I printed off some pages, folded them and put them in purse, then picked up everything I thought Blakeney would need this morning.

My arms full of stuff, I came downstairs, and dumped it all on the counter right inside the guest bathroom. Crossing the hall, I made for the livingroom.

It was then that I smelled smoke.

Clamping down on a sudden rush of adrenaline, I ran into the livingroom and saw the window shades open, the sun blazing in, a fire burning bright in the fireplace, a few tiny wisps of smoke in the air from a coal that had popped out of the grate, and Sir Percy Blakeney, fully dressed, picking that coal up with tongs and putting back into the fire. Sighing with relief, I quickly surveyed the room. He had neatly refolded the blanket and clothes I had given him, and they were on the floor next to the couch. But I barely noticed that for a minute, because there was a whole bunch of food laid out on the hearth, one of my cast iron pans on the coals, and a piece of bread on the end of one of my fondu forks, slowly toasting over the fire. There was a pile of toasted and buttered bread on a plate nearby, several fried eggs and what looked like a whole package of turkey sausages frying in the pan, and now that I was paying attention, I realized that the room smelled like more than smoke.

Blakeney finished tending the fire, and turned to me, "Good morning, mistress of the house," he said merrily, bowing like he usually did, "I do hope you don't mind. . ." and he picked up his eyeglass and gestured at the breakfast he had made, "But, demme if I could stomach another dashed odd meal like last night. At least not yet." He leaned closer to me, confidentially, "Do you know I dreamed that I was holding a pink rabbit that kept shedding its fur all over me and then it ate my cravat? It must have been that wasabi whatsis you seemed to like so much. Dem lethal. . ."

"Uh, good morning to you too, Blakeney." I was still reeling a bit from the fact that he was actually cooking over my fireplace, "You cook, then?" There hadn't been anything like THAT in the book I had read this morning.

"When duty calls. . ." he said brightly, "But WHY is your fireplace so far away from your kitchen, and where on EARTH are your servants, and why is there a huge tank of fish in your kitchen? And bye the bye, how the devil to you empty the chamber pot in there?" he gestured toward the bathroom, "You are aware that it is attached to the floor?"

I snorted, "Whoa, whoa. Slow down," I couldn't take all this in at once, "Don't attack a poor girl like this when I havn't even had my coffee. . . did you make that too?"

"No - not that I looked. I did look for tea, and is this how it is sold these days?" he disdainfully held up a single serving package of Celestial Seasonings, "Wonderful cold storage cupboard you have though. I'll wager it would keep beef fresh for weeks! But I don't understand why you have things stuck to the outside of it, what is "take and bake pizza"? And what is this, may I ask?" he pointed at and tentatively touched the plastic bag that had once held the loaf of bread he had toasted, "It makes quite a strange sound, I must say, and it is perfectly clear. . ."

"Yes," I interrupted, now quite bewildered, "That is plastic. And if you want the answers to anything else, you are going to have to come in here." I walked my somewhat dazed self into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, fed my tank of tropical fish, and marveled that he had managed to open the package of sausages without killing himself or permanently scarring the countertop. There were knives and plates everywhere, but I was even more shocked when I saw that the little breakfast nook off to the side was spread elegantly with the crystal and good china that had been my grandmother's, and he had actually dug out my small lace tablecloth and good silver that I only brought out for Thanksgiving (as all other holidays were casual affairs in my family).

I was still deciding whether I wanted to be stunned, flattered or irritated, when he came in from the livingroom bearing all the things he had cooked, and he began deftly to transfer them to serving plates.

"Late morning," he said amiably, "So a substantial breakfast, I thought. You don't mind?" I noticed then that he was looking rather wary, perhaps he thought he had insulted me?

"Yes, yes, it's fine, it smells grand, but it was rather a long day yesterday, and this is. . . well. . . all rather unfamiliar for me too, you know." I sighed, "Be patient with all these questions, Blakeney, I've had a very information filled morning, and you fire all this stuff at me so quick I don't know where to begin.

He bowed and waved his eyeglass in what I assumed was an apology - that eyeglass was beginning get on my nerves - and then he laid all the eggs and toast and sausages on the table, added a plate of tomatoes he had sliced, and then he drew out a chair and gestured for me to sit.

I smiled, relenting, "But there are a few things, I will admit, that won't take much getting used to. . ."

He smiled in return, and served our plates. It was quite good, I will say, and even though the eggs were slightly cool by this time, the very hot coffee made up for it. Halfway through, I was feeling much better, and very glad that I at least knew something of his history now, so I could feel more comfortable in my explanations of all his questions.

"You have done rather well, Blakeney, using a fireplace that was never meant to be used for cooking," I said quietly, "That is why it is in a different room, you see." I pointed at the gas stovetop I usually cooked on, "That is my stove, and I'll show you how to use it sometime." He nodded, obviously listening intently, and determined not to start in on another round of rapid fire questions, "As for servants, I don't have any, and never have had. I am afraid that for are now living in a time where most people are of a bourgeois class and cannot afford them." I was pleased to note that he looked quite understanding at this remark, and so I took courage and pointed at the fish tank, "Those," I said simply, "Are my fish. I call them the Seven Deadly Sins - Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Extravagance, Wrath, Envy, Pride. . . you know, the song? . . anyway, they all seemed to have one of those traits and so I called the orange one Wrath because he likes to nip at all the other's fins, and the starfish is Sloth because it moves maybe once a week, and. . ."

"You are friends with these fish, Sarah?" Blakeney sounded confused, but at least he didn't seem to think me mad.

"Yes, well. . ." I said, a little abashed, "There ARE my pets. . . Anyway, they keep me company in the kitchen."

He nodded once, shortly, then asked, "And what. . . is plastic?"

I put some jam on the last piece of toast, "It's a material we have now. It's very common, you're going to find it everywhere. I don't quite know how to explain what it's made of, but it's very durable, can be molded into just about anything, and is sometimes cheaper to use and make than glass and paper, etc."

He shrugged, and I supposed that meant he understood as well as he might.

"As for the "chamber pot", as you put it, I'm going to explain a lot about that, but after we are done eating."

"By all means," he agreed heartily, and took a last swallow of his coffee, which he had admitted he enjoyed, even though it wasn't tea, and I had promised to look into buying tea - "the real thing" - for him somewhere.

He enthusiastically helped me clean up, and that was a perfect time to explain running water, which he found fascinating.

"And it just keeps coming, then? Hot _and_ cold? No priming or pumping or buckets or fires?"

"Yes," I said, a trifle taken aback at his joy at such a convenience.

"Amazing. Quite wonderful. And it's perfectly clean water?"

"Well, I don't drink it, but that doesn't mean you couldn't, and it's more than safe to take a bath in."

"Yes, about that," he said, sweeping his fingertips over the golden stubble on his chin, "I didn't ask earlier because you. . ."

I laughed, "Yes, don't worry, I'm feeling much better for a substantial breakfast, and I've rather a lot to show you after we are done here." We had almost finished washing the good china, and he was quite entertained by the prospect of the dishwasher for the rest of it, but at last I could show him the bathroom, and explain about modern hygiene.

He understood the shower, bathtub and sink right away, and the flush toilet and toilet paper were an easy steps from there. Toothbrushes were eagerly embraced, and deodorant likewise. He laughed at hairspray until I did my own hair to show him, and then he asked if the bottle I had brought downstairs was for him. I wasn't sure if I liked the cunning look that came into his eyes when I told him yes, but he cottoned immediately on to floss and mouthwash and lotion, and then it was time for the important one.

"This," I said, "is a razor. You use it pretty much the way you used to use those big dangerous ones, but this time all you have to do. . ." I lifted my skirt a few inches to show him on my ankle, "is put a bit of the foam. . ." I looked up, as he had promptly turned around when he saw me lift my skirt, and he did not look at all inclined to look back at me.

I smiled at his propriety, and said companionably, "This is not immodest of me, I assure you, and I trust you, you know." I laughed a little, "It's a good thing you didn't arrive here in summer, Blakeney, you'd have nowhere to look! Everyone wears short pants and t-shirts."

He turned back a little, "Short pants? You mean rompers?" he asked, incredulous, and when I told him yes, he laughed so long and hard that I had a serious time getting his mind back onto the subject at hand. But once he managed to look at my foam covered ankle, he understood modern razors quite easily.

"Right, get it all now?" I asked handing him the razor I had just rinsed.

He nodded yes, and I left him to it.

A half an hour later, he emerged, clean and refreshed looking, and eager to start the day.

"I do believe you said we would spend today "finding out what to do with me", did you not?" he sat down on the couch across from my easy chair, "Well, if you are not yet thoroughly exhausted by your extended use of you quite valiant explaining skills, would you mind telling me exactly what your plans are?"

"Not at all," I smiled "We have got to go out and see if the coin shop I know of will buy those sovereigns of yours."

"True," he nodded.

"And I need to go shopping for some things I need for dinner tonight."

"Jolly good."

"And I have no doubt you want to ask several long strings of questions, but I don't mind telling you that I have a few long strings of questions about your world too. . ."

"Exactly, 'tis only fair."

I gritted my teeth - this was the big one, "And. . . we had better get you some other clothes, Blakeney, you can't be seen in those."

He looked shocked, but not affronted, "Why ever not?" he said airily.

I took a deep breath, "Well, in the first place," I said, "I'm willing to bet they're not machine washable, and I do not intend to do massive and frequent amounts of dry cleaning for you, and in the second place, you stick out like Galadriel at a hobbit family reunion - "

"Like who at a what?"

"Like Gal. . . uh. . . like a. . . . . . um. . . a performing gypsy at a garden party - and in the third place, you. . . well, you. . ." I sighed and went for it, "Ok, let's be honest - you look so gay it's just not funny."

He looked even more confused and almost insulted, "What the devil is wrong with looking gay?" he said seriously, "Rather a compliment, I should think."

I paused, shocked that _he_, of all people, would think like that, and then I suddenly realized exactly what the misunderstanding was. I groaned and put my head in my hands, because there was just no way I could explain THIS to him - not to SIR PERCY BLAKENEY, a two hundred year old English Baronet who thought it improper for me to say "I love you" to my boyfriend, and show my ankles in public. How could I possibly mention _this_, even in private?

But, somehow the whole thought - him being who he was - and not knowing what he had just said - was a funny one, and I held back a giggle and looked as seriously as I could at him.

"Trust me, Blakeney," I got out, "You CAN'T be seen in those clothes. I happen to know your clothing preferences tend toward the, um, shall we say, sartorially complex? - but it just doesn't look. . . correct. . . here. Not for someone of your. . . uh. . . expectations."

"Expectations?" He raised that eyeglass at me again. Yes, that was really starting to annoy me.

"Yes," I said, almost frustrated, "BELIEVE me, Blakeney, when I say that if you stay in those clothes, or anything like them, you WILL encounter some people you do NOT expect, and probably do NOT understand. And I can personally guarantee that you will _not_ be ready to talk to them if this is the way you are dressed when you do."

He raised an eyebrow and his eyeglass, as though rather put off by the suggestion, but he knew he was rather at my mercy, and last night he HAD expressed compliance with my wish for him to blend in. I did not tell him that the only place he could possibly "blend in" while in his present clothes would be a science fiction convention, a renasaince fair, or a very posh costume party, but he seemed to understand that sticking out like a performing gypsy at a garden party was not exactly a wise thing.

"Very well, Sarah," he said almost blandly, "I am rather interested in you society, I find, and an expedition would be rather informative, what?"

"Yes, quite," I said, but not at all sure I was really ready for this.

"Shall we then?" he bowed and offered his arm, and I took up my purse, turned on my phone, put on my sunglasses, and linked my arm through his in a friendly way, then, with a big deep breath, stepped out into the world.

The clock on my phone had changed to 1:00 PM the very moment after I turned it on.

He had been here for twenty four hours.


	7. The Gay Adventurer

Look out world. Sir Percy Blakeney is going shopping.

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**The "Gay" Adventurer**

Sir Percy was in a very good mood as we drove to the nearby shopping mall. He asked all sorts of thins about my car that he hadn't had a chance to yesterday, and he just loved opening and closing the windows, and adjusting his seat. His boyish enthusiasm was quite endearing, and I must admit he was a pleasant companion, except for the quizzing glass and sometimes the vast misunderstandings that we were both beginning to get used to.

I turned on the radio for him, purposefully keeping it on a classical music station so I wouldn't have to explain more than one thing at a time, and he was quite impressed.

The shopping mall he understood to be a very big marketplace, and there was little or no problem with him figureing out the escalators - though he did find them outrageously fun.

Strangely though, he did have a very hard time understanding standardized clothing sizes, and in the end I just asked him to wait in a book shop, and I directed him to the wall that had some world history books on it and gave him a couple of twenties if he wanted to buy something.

Then I went to the men's clothing department and picked out two sizes of Levi's two sizes of nice black dress pants - one size or the other would have to work - a couple of long sleeved knits - white and black, and as big as I could find - a dark gray cardigan, a good coat, a pair of loafers and a pair of dress shoes (I had taken a look at his boots that morning, and I had noticed that his feet were much smaller for his height than might be expected, so I got both pairs in eleven and a half, instead of twelve or thirteen), and to top it off I got an turquoise-ish colored belt for him, thinking he'd appreciate the color, and I thought that this particular shade would go rather well with his coloring.

I would have to wait until I knew what fit him before I could get him underwear or socks.

I stopped by the counter and picked out a rather sleek looking pair of sunglasses for him - hopefully they could replace that annoying eyeglass thing.

My hand basket was quite overflowing when I got back to the bookshop - it was just on the corner of the clothing department, so I didn't have to buy anything to go and get him, but he wasn't there.

He had wandered off.

I wanted to shout a very improper word at the top of my lungs, but I held back, and left my basket with the attendant, and just looked for him.

This was so not good on so many levels.

Where was he, and what on earth was he doing?

What sort of terror had I released onto an unsuspecting public?


	8. Dealings With Breeches

**A/N** - Everyone, you have my express permission to breathe during this chapter. Please do. Do not turn blue like I did while writing it. Breathe. Breathe, I say!

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**Dealings with Breeches**

After an extremely tense couple of minutes, I found him in one of the more "focus group" oriented shops, and he was looking at a pair of powder blue polyester satin pedal-pusher length cargo pants. With pink flowers on them. And embroidered teacups. And he looked seriously interested.

I sighed with relief and grabbed one of the oversized plastic bags the store offered, then I took the pants out of his hand and hung them up, resolved to never let him into the Disney Store again.

"Blakeney looked around curiously, "Demmed sort of materials you use in this place, Sarah, and where in the world is the shopkeeper?"

I closed my eyes, "Hush, Blakeney. Just hush. Please, I - no don't pull on the lables, please, they are there for a reason - there's no time for all your questions now, I need you to tell me if some clothes fit, so I can go find you some other necessary things. . ." I directed him out of the store and toward the changing rooms, "And you can fold up that leisure suit of yours and put it in here," - I handed him the bag - "And that will keep it safe enough, you have eleven items, tell this young man that, take the card and this basket, go into that doorway and go to the left, find an empty stall, don't forget to lock it, and please God tell me you know how to work a zipper."

He had been curiously investigating the fastenings on the jeans, as I bundled him past the indifferent attendant.

"So, is that what that thing is called?" He raised an eyebrow, "Hm. I must say it all looks begad uncomfortable."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry about that, but I don't know your size, so it's trial and error." I looked warily around us, "Look here, there's no one else around, so go in there and try it all on, and if you find something that fits, you can just wear it out of here."

"If I am still capable of perambulation. . ." he said, holding one of the pairs of jeans like it was very smelly and about to spontaneously-combust.

I was a bit taken aback, "Capable of what? Never mind. . . Blakeney, just try it all on, will you? I'll wait here." I had been seriously considering _not_ waiting there, but he obviously was going to have a lot of trouble adjusting to modern clothes, so I made up my mind to stay and walk him through it.

I regretted my decision, five seconds after he was locked in the changing room.

After several very loud exclamations of "Zounds!", "Begad!", and "Sink me!", he began yelling over the walls - "Sarah, are you aware that there is NO PLACE for a cravat on this thing you have the temerity to call a shirt? There is NO COLLAR! What on God's good earth? . . Zooks! I would comment on the sleeves, but demmit, they don't deserve the name. . . "

I very speedily turned what I am sure was a fascinating shade of pink, and covered my eyes with my hands, while at the same time trying to look completely unrelated to the sounds that were coming from the changing room.

"I refuse to wear breeches without proper lining! And as for that death trap on the front, you can NOT be serious!" He seemed to expect some sort of answer, because next he yelled out -

"This coat was made for a sans-culotte beggar!"

I stood there, quietly imploding from both laughter and profound embarrassment, and I guess this sort of sight was slightly odd, even by a mall's standards, and at this point I had the joy that comes when you actually draw the attention of the changing room attendant. I tried to get control of myself, because I could see him looking at me with wary interest.

He was about to speak when Blakeney yelled -

"HOW THE DEVIL DO YOU EXPECT ME TO WEAR THESE SHOES?????"

I nearly collapsed again. But that was just too bad for me because then the attendant finally got up the nerve to as me a question.

"What's. . ." he almost whispered, "What's wrong with your. . ." he twitched his head in Blakeney's direction, " Your. . . friend?"

I have never been so close to losing it in public, but I managed to hold it all back, and I squelched my embarrassment somehow and stammered -

"It's uh. . .Hem! . .Um, it's time for his Ritalin. Ignore him, he's harmless. . ."

And then for the very first - and, I hoped, the very last - time in my life, I ran into a men's changing room. I was going to stop this, somehow.

Blakeney was very nearly squealing, "Will you LOOK at the SEAMS on this? I ASK YOU!?!?!?"

"BLAKENEY!" I yelled in my most matriarchal manner, "Will you DROP THE FOP!?!?!? Just try it on and get it OVER WITH!"

"But Sarah, really. . ." he was most aggrieved.

"Blakeney," I hissed, "Have you actually tried ANY of it on?"

"No, how can I be expected to. . ."

"BLAKENEY!" I said, stamping my foot, "Don't you dare make me go through all this for nothing! You will find something that fits, or so help me. . ."

"But Sarah, 'tis simply monstrous. . ."

My voice became as dangerous as I think it has ever been, "Blakeney, I am NOT going to come in there and force you to try these things on - and don't even ASK me if I care that you have no idea what you are doing - but if I have to stand here talking to you like this for ONE more minute, I am going to buy _all_ your clothes in black and introduce you to everyone as Monshure Cheveberon!

That shut him up. A few minutes later, he said, "The cream. . . ah, off white. . . sleeved tunic, I suppose it is. . . is tight across the shoulders but quite good otherwise, and the larger dark blue and black. . . pants. . . fit, but both are somewhat short - and, ah. . . I do apologize, but do all breeches. . . chafe. . . these days?"

I almost exploded laughing, but I managed to hold it back to a short, cut-off giggle, and I said, "No, don't worry, there's another piece of clothing coming that will add an inside layer, that's why I needed you to try those on. Ok, you need one size longer on the pants and we might just have to go to Big and Tall for the shirts. How's the belt?"

"Dem good. I didn't know leather came in that colour. . . ah. . . Sarah?"

"Yes?"

"How would one say "dem good" in your local lingo? I feel wretchedly out of place with all this language change. . ."

He sounded quite sincere, and suddenly my breath choked in my throat. Here he was, over two hundred years out of his time, alone, almost friendless, half dressed, locked in a changing room with several unfamiliar pieces of clothing, and asking the one girl who was willing to help him how he could feel more at home. . . The man's attitude and self control was suddenly almost stunning.

I softened my tone and lowered my voice to a murmur, "I'm not exactly the right one to be asking, Blakeney, but I might say, "snazzy", or "cool, or "hot", or maybe even "spiffy".

He paused, then asked, "Cool and hot mean the same thing?"

I cracked a grin, "Sometimes."

"How very odd. But I do like snazzy - nice expressive term. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. Please toss me the jeans that fit and I'll go get you some boxer shorts to try on. I do not expect I'll have to tell you that the button goes in front. . ."

"What?"

"You'll understand in a minute," I took a deep breath, "And Blakeney?"

"Yes?"

"Don't talk while I'm gone, okay? You're scaring people."

He snorted, "I imagine you are too. . ." he laughed, and added bemusedly, "Go on, get out of here, you minx."

"Yes sir," I said, mock saluting, even though he couldn't see me, and then I beat a hasty retreat.


	9. Moving On

Greetings! Did you miss this story?

Well, it's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. (^_^) I have not forgotten it, nor those who inspire me to write it.

Thank you to Teish for testy women, Clio1792 for Indian food, and to Cairistona and Pimpernel Princess for getting me (metaphorically speaking) off my butt and writing this story again.

* * *

**Moving On**

It took a couple of hours, several trips for me back and forth to the men's clothing section, and. . . (swallowing my pride) enlisting the help of the changing room attendant, but eventually Blakeney did decide that wearing modern clothes would not kill him, and that he didn't look utterly ghastly in them either.

Quite the contrary, when he finally emerged from the changing room, I was pleased to note that he looked rather good in the clean lines of modern men's wear, and since he had condescended to brush his hair differently and wear the sunglasses instead of that monocle on a stick, he was quite respectable, and more than a little dashing. I smiled happily. In no way would I be embarrassed to stand next to him in a public place, and I could, no doubt, easily pass for his friend - he blended in quite well now.

Or at least his clothes did.

"Demme Sarah," he said, turning and twisting in front of the mirror, obviously preening, "Maybe 'tisn't all so bad. . . what?"

"_Gosh_, yes," I said, putting deliberate emphasis on the slang word, "Modern clothing suits you. . . though if you still want something dressy, you will have to talk to Mike about it. . . I am rather less than well versed in formal clothing for men - sorry about that. . . I guess I should have warned you. . ."

Mentioning Mike had not been the wisest thing to do. . . I was getting more nervous by the hour about explaining all this to him - but fortunately Blakeney did not notice.

I think.

"I say, Sarah," Blakeney asked, finally satisfied with his present appearance, "Does _anyone_ still wear hats these days?"

"Not really," I said, tiredly lugging the great armload of rejected clothes to the attendant - who really had been unexpectedly patient throughout the whole ordeal, "Unless you are a cowboy or a baseball player - or a cop, I suppose. . . or Michael Jackson. . . but that's neither here nor there," I added hurriedly, seeing that he was looking confused and about to ask some embarrassing questions, "The point is that yes, you _can_ wear a hat, but _no_ it will not be what most people do. I'm sorry."

He sighed. "There is just is no telling what turn fashion will take. . ." he looked sorrowful. I thought for a minute that _maybe_ the world had been a more interesting place with people like Blakeney setting the fashions, but that I was also sure of one thing - people who set fashions were just odd - it didn't matter _what_ time they were from.

"True, now let me pay for all this. . ." I quickly handed over my credit card, "and then we can grab some lunch and find that coin shop."

He brightened up at the mention of food - or maybe it was the mention of the coin shop, because he looked rather disapproving at me paying for everything all the time.

I shook my head. Really. Gentlemen. Sometimes they could be a real pain. . .

We began to walk around the now somewhat crowded mall, and he looked about eagerly, "I saw a sign back there. . . somewhere. . ." he waved vaguely, "while we were taking the escalator, Sarah - it said "Curry Tasters" - Is that what I think it is?"

"I literally have no idea _what _you _think_ it is, Blakeney," I said, only a little sarcastically, "but it IS a restaurant in the food court where we can get a fantastic naan and Tandoori chicken - that going to sit alright with you?"

"Yes, of course," he said blandly, flipping all our purchases into two shopping bags and lifting them easily into the cart, "Sound's ideal, if we could get away from all the noise. . ."

Knowing I was about to let myself in for a round of questions, I said, "We'll get it to go."

He opened his mouth to reply, but I never heard what he was about to say, for then the world spun, and a bright white pain spread across the back of my head. Someone had knocked me down, taken my purse, and set off running.


End file.
